Left End Edwards

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Steve, like most others on the second, had relinquished hope of getting on the 'varsity. A month ago he would have scornfully refused to consider anything less than a position on the first team, but Steve had had his eyes opened not a little. There was a difference between the sort of football played by Brimfield and the kind played by the Tannersville High School team, and Steve now recognised the fact. Perhaps he secretly still thought himself deserving of a place on the 'varsity—frankly, I think he did—but whereas a month ago he would not have hesitated to make the fact known, he had since learned that at Brimfield it was not considered good form to blow your own horn, as the saying is.

But if he was disappointed at falling short of the final goal of his ambition, he was nevertheless having a very good time on the second. There was a lot of fine fellows there and the spirit of camaraderie was strong, and grew stronger as the season progressed. The second was perhaps almost as proud of their organisation as was the 'varsity of theirs, and when, the week after the Benton game, they once defeated and twice tied the other team, you might have thought they had vanquished Claflin, so haughty and stuck-up did they become!

Steve played under a severe handicap that week, for once more he and "Uncle Sim" were at outs. With Mr. Daley's assistance and encouragement, and by a really earnest period of application on his own part, he had successfully weathered the previous storm and had even been taken into Mr. Simkins' good graces. But football is a severe taskmaster, if one allows it to become such, and what with a strong desire to distinguish himself on the second—animated to some extent by the wish to show Mr. Robey what he had missed for the 'varsity—and a commendable effort to profit by Marvin's teaching, he had soon begun to ease up on his Greek and Latin, which were for him the most difficult of his courses. And now "Uncle Sim" was down on him again, as Steve put it, and on the eve of the Cherry Valley contest he was in a fair way to have trouble with the Office. Mr. Simkins' patience, perhaps never very long, was about exhausted. He had reason on his side, however, for Steve was by no means the only student who was in difficulties at that time. On Friday morning Mr. Simkins had indulged in sarcasm.

"Well, well," he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands, "I dare say it is too much to require you young gentlemen to study when it is such fine weather for football. What a pity it is that lessons and play conflict, is it not, Wilson?"

Wilson was too canny to make audible reply, however, and the instructor proceeded blandly.

"I wonder if Mr. Fernald would postpone recitations until after you have finished football for the year. I think I'll suggest it to him. For, really, you know, this sort of thing is only wasting my time; and yours too, young gentlemen, for you might be out kicking a leather-covered bag of wind around the ground instead of sitting here cudgelling your poor brains—eh? Let us say heads, rather. The evidence is too slight to warrant the use of the first word—cudgelling your heads, then, trying to 'fake' lessons you've never looked at. I sympathise with you deeply. I commiserate. I—I am almost moved to tears. My heart goes out to you, young gentlemen."

Mr. Simkins looked so sad and woebegone that the older boys, who knew him well, trembled in their shoes. The room was very silent. With Mr. Simkins the storm was always in proportion to the calm, and the present calm was indeed portentous. The instructor fought for a moment with his emotions. Then he sighed.

"Well, until we have permission to discard recitations, I presume we must go on with them, such as they are." His gaze roved sympathetically over the class, most of whom showed a strong desire to escape his attention. Finally, "Edwards," he said softly and, as it seemed to Steve, maliciously, "let us proceed with the dull and untimely lesson. Kindly translate the tiresome utterances of this ignorant man who preferred wisdom and eloquence to athletics and football, Edwards. You may begin where your—hm—brilliant predecessor regretfully left off. For the moment, pray, detach your thoughts from the verdant meadows and the sprightly football, Edwards. And—ah—don't, please don't tell me that you are not prepared. Somehow that phrase afflicts my ears, Edwards, and were you to make use of it I should, I fear, be driven to—ah—strong measures. Now, Edwards, if you will be so kind."

Well, Steve was not prepared, as it happened, but he knew better than to say so, and, putting on an expression of confidence and pleasure as though Mr. Simkins had offered him the rarest of privileges, he plunged bravely into a paragraph of Cicero's Orations. But it was hard going and he was soon stumbling and hesitating, casting about desperately for words. A long, deep sigh travelled from the platform.

"That will do, Edwards," said Mr. Simkins sorrowfully. "Your rendering is novel and interesting. It is, possibly, an improvement on the original matter, but the question very naturally arises, Edwards, whether we have the right to improve on Cicero. Of course he had his limitations, Edwards, and his faults, and yet"—Mr. Simkins shook his head slowly and thoughtfully—"on the whole, Edwards, I think perhaps we should accept him as we find him, viewing his faults with a leniency becoming great minds, tolerating much, Edwards, for the sake of the—ah—occasional golden kernel to be detected in his mass of chaff by such giant intellects as yours. You do detect an occasional kernel of sense, Edwards?"